


Priorities

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between his father, Harry, Afghanistan and now Sherlock it seemed John's whole life had been triage of one kind or another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Priorities

John bundled himself into the back of the taxi, wrapped his coat tightly around himself and then his arms around that. The shaking wasn’t just limited to his hand now, but then this wasn't PTSD, this was reaction. He glanced out of the window; Sherlock was throwing out some final words on the case before ducking inside the taxi with him in a swirl of wool and night air.

Sherlock didn't even glance at John as he instructed the driver to take them home and John was glad: he had no idea what he'd say. Sherlock settled back in his seat as the taxi pulled away and John watched him out of the corner of his eye. He knew Sherlock was aware of his study, but they'd reached a kind of understanding about it: if it bothered Sherlock, he had no compunctions about voicing it; if he didn't voice it, then John was free to continue, whatever his manners might tell him.

John closed his eyes; Lestrade thought John was a good influence on Sherlock and sometimes John even agreed. Today wasn't one of those days. Today had been the kind of day where Mycroft would look all too knowingly at him and things like ASBOs and evidence would just quietly disappear.

In his mind's eye, John replayed the scene they had just left. It had been a stand-off between the police and a gang involved in child prostitution; Sherlock had made himself a target in an attempt to draw them out and had succeeded all too well, and John had been the only one close enough to do anything about it.

During medical training he remembered once being asked how he reconciled being a doctor with being a soldier, but it hadn't ever really been a problem for him. Between his father, Harry and Afghanistan it seemed his whole life had been some variety of triage and the quick decisions he’d had to make between life or limb in surgeries had come naturally to him. So he'd stood, knowing he had the shots, knowing he was good enough to take them, knowing that he'd have to take them if he wanted to save Sherlock's life, and it hadn't been difficult at all.

He'd used the police advance to cover him, not really caring that they too were open to attack - they had the guns to defend themselves. Sherlock, helpless and tied to a chair, had been all that mattered; the rest, to borrow his friend’s favourite phrase, had been irrelevant. John had taken down five men in less time than he cared to think about and none of them would ever be getting back up again, but Sherlock had survived unscathed.

Oddly, the killing didn't bother him, though he knew it should, for most people it would; it was the focus that disturbed him, the single-minded drive that was willing to sacrifice anyone or anything for Sherlock - even himself.

John swallowed and tipped his head back against the seat, "Is this what it feels like to be you?" he asked roughly. He wondered when he'd lost the habit of explaining his train of thought - probably about the same time he'd met Sherlock, though in all honesty it had probably been before then, he just hadn't voiced his conclusions then either.

Sherlock glanced over at him, pale eyes reflecting the streetlights strangely, "Unquantifiable data, John," he chided.

John rolled his head to look at him, Sherlock had emotions, what he lacked was empathy; he had a hard time processing his own feelings, never mind anyone else's. Still, maybe saying the words out loud would make them make more sense.

"When you were a hostage - when I made the decision to shoot - I did it without thinking about the police officers I'd be putting at risk, I didn't think about the men I'd be killing either - none of that mattered." He paused, surely that would be enough. "Is that what it feels like to be you?" he repeated.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, expression unchanging. "If by that you mean the clarity of purpose? I suppose so, yes."

John shuddered; it wasn't really a surprise that Sherlock could put it into words better than he, but still. Clarity was the word: a ruthless clarity independent of morality, fear or so-called better judgement. For those few minutes of violence, things had been so clear and so very simple. It had been nice, even if just for a little while, to forget about consequences, about the fact that every man he’d killed had a family, loved ones, dreams...

"John," Sherlock's voice was low as the taxi turned into Baker Street, "An ability to compartmentalise and prioritise doesn't make you evil, or so I’ve been told."

John looked at Sherlock and shook his head with a faint smile; of course Sherlock would use his own words against him. "No, it doesn't, but it doesn't make things easy either," he said as the taxi pulled to a stop and John climbed out, for once leaving Sherlock to pay. If Sherlock hadn’t deduced why John put Sherlock first, or why it bothered him sometimes, John wasn’t prepared to raise the subject yet.

His breath steamed in the chill night air and he felt Sherlock step in close behind him, ignoring John’s personal space the way he always did. John glanced over as he unlocked their door and Sherlock smiled his odd, lopsided smile, the one that no-one but John ever saw, "No, but easy is boring."

It startled a laugh from John and as he pushed the door open and Sherlock swept past, he realised that his hands had stopped shaking.

FIN


End file.
